The Tricky Thing About Consent
by 1-800-SHDWRLM
Summary: It wasn't non-consensual, because Sherlock never said no. Filled for a BBC Sherlock Kink Meme prompt. Warnings include dubious consent, noncon, and heavy drug use. John/Sherlock, past Sebastian/Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1

**Warning for abuse and dubious consent. Slightly modified age in later chapters.**

**Please review! I will be updating once a day, regardless, but reviews are very nice!**

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_Sebastian drew his fingers gently through Sherlock's dark curly hair, keeping his head pressed down to the pillows in Sebastian's bed, while fumbling with Sherlock's belt with his other hand. "Hold still," he muttered angrily, and Sherlock all but stopped breathing, his eyes wide and wild and unseeing. The white of the wall next to him was mocking him with its purity._

"_Seb, please not so rough," he whispered, tensing at the first warm touches to the bare skin of his hips. He received a sharp slap in response. He didn't give up, though; at twenty years old, he felt perfectly capable of taking care of himself, and it was obvious that Sebastian was playing. He would stop as soon as Sherlock gave him word._

_Wouldn't he?_

_Sherlock tried to look back, shifting against the older student's hold. "Sebastian, last time was… please, not so rough this—"_

_An even harder slap had him crying out in pain. "Shut up, freak," Sebastian answered, bearing his teeth in a grin. "You liked it. You were calling my name."_

"_You were hurting me!" Sherlock really struggled now, done with the game. "Sebastian, we've been dating for a week; I gave you my fucking virginity, for Christ's sake! Let me up!"_

_Sebastian sighed and pulled Sherlock's trousers and pants to his ankles, lifting his arse into the air by pushing upward underneath his hips. "Give it a rest."_

"_Seb? Sebastian? __**Sebastian!**__"_

Sherlock awoke in a cold sweat, his heart racing and his vision blurred by completely unwanted tears. He swiped angrily at them, sitting up and letting the sheets pool around his waist. John rapped quickly on the door and Sherlock sighed, lying back down. "Come in."

John cracked the door open, seemingly unwilling to step inside. "You shouted… I thought maybe you were hurt…"

The detective blinked at him. "No, nothing like that. A nightmare. That's all." He pulled his sheets and duvet more tightly around himself and curled up, but made sure he was still facing John. "You can go back to sleep."

"If you're… I was awake, anyway." Obviously, from the jeans and jumper he was sporting and his freshly washed hair. "You could come out to the sitting room." He entered Sherlock's bedroom then, making him tense and frown. "Need help?"

Sherlock could tell John was going to cross the space of his empty floor to the bed. He knew John would look down at him with that concerned and slightly confused expression, reaching out to lay a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He knew John would lean closer in an attempt to meet his eyes. "No," Sherlock insisted, hoping his tone wasn't as sharp as it could have been. "No, I'm fine. I'll be out in a moment." His voice was getting more and more clipped with every sentence, his already fragile patience (and comfort) wearing thin.

John looked as if he were about to argue, but refrained, nodding slightly and closing Sherlock's door on his way out. The apprehension Sherlock's brain was imposing upon his heart faded and he could breathe deeply again. He closed his eyes, willing himself all right, before sliding out of his bed with the sheet draped over his shoulders.

The sound of his own screams echoed in his head.


	2. Chapter 2

**Double update because thank you guys for reading :")**

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_"You know I love you, don't you Sherlock?" Sebastian practically purred in Sherlock's ear, holding him closely with one hand on his hip and the other wrapped around his chest. "You know I'd do anything for you."_

_Sherlock smiled, shifting further backward in Sebastian's embrace. "I love you too, Sebastian," he said, and he meant it. Seb was the only one who actively sought him out at the university; the only one who seemed to want him around for something more than doing their work or spying on their significant others; the only one who ever kissed him, or touched him in the place where he himself was wary to touch; the only one who could stand him because he was such a skinny freak with no brain-to-mouth filter who should have been put down at birth like the runt of a litter._

_Or, at least, that's what Sebastian told him. Almost every day for the month-long duration of their relationship, Sebastian would solidify Sherlock's own opinion of himself with words or violence. More often both. "Would you do anything for me, Sherlock?"_

_Closing his piercing blue-green eyes, Sherlock nodded, his serene smile slipping. "Anything, Seb."_

_The older student rocked against him, pressing his now-obvious erection against the small of Sherlock's back. "Why don't you turn over and open those sinful legs of yours, hm?"_

"_Sebastian," Sherlock said doubtfully, hesitating. "I have class tomorrow…"_

"_So do I, love. That doesn't matter. I know you're as horny as I am."_

_Sherlock was not, but he did as he was told, turning onto his stomach and lifting himself on all fours. "Not so rough this time?" he asked, an empty plea. Sebastian kissed his shoulder, his lips soft and warm, and Sherlock closed his eyes and let his head fall forward, relieved. Sebastian was going to listen to him after all._

"_Not so rough," the business major agreed, pressing his hot, well lubricated dick against Sherlock's arsehole. "I love you, Sherlock."_

_It was those times when Sherlock doubted his own recollection of their relationship. Surely Sebastian never hit him, or at least not hard enough to warrant tears. He never raped him, because Sherlock always gave consent in the end._

_A swift thrust forward brought Sherlock out of his own thoughts and into reality. He moaned, a bit uncomfortable with the unprepared entry, but appreciative all the same. Sebastian really did love him. And love never hurt._

The detective and the doctor burst into laughter at the latest development in the case. Well, it wasn't really related to the case, but it happened when they were at the crime scene, and therefore was part of the case.

John was the first to calm, his hand on Sherlock's upper arm in an attempt to hold himself upright. "I reckon Anderson and Donovan have split up, then," he whispered, sending both of them into another round of uncontrollable giggles.

"Who knew Anderson was a necrophiliac?" Sherlock replied just as quietly, and their laughter got louder.

"All right you two," Lestrade chastised, belied by his own smile. "I'm sure Anderson didn't mean to, ah, _feel up_ the corpse…"

Sherlock wiped at his eyes, leaning back against the wall of the next building. "No, I'm sure he didn't." He cleared his throat, shot a satisfied glance at a red-faced Anderson, and leaned over to begin examining the body. "John, promise me, when I'm dead, you'll be the only one to feel me up."

John pressed his lips together in what would be irritation if his shoulders weren't shaking in silent laughter. "Don't joke about that, Sherlock. It isn't funny."

Sharp eyes swept over him, staring unwaveringly into his. Sherlock was momentarily bewildered by John's unease with the subject, but didn't comment on it, his gaze shifting back to the body. "Late twenties. Secretary. She was not having an affair with her boss, but she and the unmarried paperboy were… close. Not as close as her and Anderson, but."

Sherlock felt warmth bubble up in his chest at John's muffled snicker. "Sherlock, time and place," he said softly.

"Anyway, Lestrade, keep me updated. I'm going to find this paperboy and John is going to her flat to speak with her roommate."

John frowned but tilted his head forward in agreement, taking her address from Lestrade with a small apologetic smile and starting off in that direction. Sherlock turned opposite and walked away, his arm still warm where John touched him through his coat. Interesting.


	3. Chapter 3

_Sherlock pulled his coat on, trying to stay quiet, but he felt as if the thudding of his heart was enough to wake everyone on campus. He slipped on his shoes and fumbled with the doorknob. So, so close…_

"_Going somewhere?" Sebastian asked, his voice a liquid threat._

"_I'm going back to my rooms," Sherlock replied. "Seb, I have studying to do."_

_Sebastian took a few long strides forward, and Sherlock automatically lowered his eyes, fighting the urge to throw his hands up in defense. "You didn't ask."_

_Sherlock looked up from under his thick, dark lashes, licking his lips. "You don't own me. I love you, but I don't belong to you."_

_A sharp slap to his face had him stumbling back into the door. "I highly suggest you rethink that idea, love." He was pulled forward by his collar, and Sebastian kissed the reddening mark. "Come back to bed."_

_Sherlock shut his eyes, balling his fists at his sides, and planted his feet on the floor. "No, Sebastian. I won't." The grip on his collar got tighter. "Let me go."_

Sitting up from the sofa, Sherlock realised he was very glad to have forgotten that memory. He was also glad that cocaine made him feel like he was on top of the world for almost ten years straight. The lows were a bit _uncomfortable_ though.

"Sherlock?" John asked from somewhere to his left. He looked up, blinking slowly. "Sherlock, please don't."

He shook his head. "Don't what?"

John smiled sympathetically at him, leaning forward to touch Sherlock's forearm. He followed John's hand with his eyes. Ah. He was holding his arm just above the inside of his elbow, forcing his veins to push upward against his skin in an effort to continue to carry his blood.

He stared at it for a few more moments. "I wasn't going to." When he lifted his head again, John was much closer to him, his smile gone. "I mean it."

"You're bored. I can tell. Not shoot-the-wall bored yet, but you're getting there." John sat next to him and folded his hands in his lap.

"At the risk of boring me further, tell me what's the matter," Sherlock deadpanned.

"Droll things. Or, you would find them droll."

Now Sherlock was curious. "I'm always up for a laugh."

John was never one to be embarrassed about something as trivial as to seem silly. But now, he was fidgeting in his seat, not daring to meet Sherlock's blue-green eyes. _But what's this…?_ His pupils were dilating, his pulse jumping in the hollow of his throat, his leg jittering in an obviously nervous reaction…

"Attraction," Sherlock murmured. He was suddenly as uncomfortable as John was. "I've told you—"

John stood up, just missing Sherlock's flinch away. "I know you have. That's why it was a stupid thing of me to say. I didn't even say it! You, you deduced it or whatever you do." He angrily stalked off into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock very confused in his wake.

"John, I can't." It was said in a whisper, but he heard John stop moving in response. "I… girlfriends are not my area, and boyfriends... John, believe me, I've tried, but I'm done. I can't."

"I understand." The doctor continued filling the kettle and putting it on the stove. "Haven't the faintest why, but I do."

Sherlock let his head drop into his hands, sighing softly. "I'm sorry," he said honestly. "I would…"

"You wouldn't." He glanced up, finding John once again standing before him, but this time with a self-depreciating little tilt to his shoulders. "Not me, certainly."

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry if Sherlock seems a bit out of character in my story. The only way to do the prompt, for me at least, was to make him… err, I don't have a word for it.**

**Plus, we always hurt the ones we love, don't we? ;)**

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_Sherlock never liked to kiss Sebastian. He had overly sharp canines that always "accidentally" caught on Sherlock's lower lip, puncturing the tender skin and making him bleed. Sherlock was forced to deal with the blood himself, cleaning the wound to make sure it didn't get infected, and God forbid any of it stain Sebastian's clothes or his sheets or the floor._

_After one such incident, Sherlock pulled his head away from the sharp rip, panting hard. "Seb, that hurt," he whimpered, his fingers sliding out of Sebastian's hair to land on his shoulders and squeeze. "Can I go clean up?"_

_Sebastian grinned at him, pushing his already nude form onto the bed and pressing two dry fingers into his arsehole. "You can, after I'm done with you." He wrapped his hand around Sherlock's only half-hard cock and pulled ineffectually at it, thrusting his fingers quickly in and out of him._

_Sherlock nodded, barely wincing at the pain, and fisted his hands in his own dark curls. "I love you, Sebastian," he purred, willing himself aroused._

_The business major didn't reply. After six months of dating, the declarations of love from him had tapered to none, but the occasional slap had increased to beatings for the slightest mistake. Still, Sherlock had stopped running away, and never really said no, and did love Sebastian with his entire being, so there was no problem._

_No problems at all. Sebastian continued to kiss him, nipping hard at the lightly bleeding cut, and Sherlock allowed him to. He would always allow him to._

John and Sherlock's first kiss wasn't post-case. It wasn't adrenalin-fueled or a spur-of-the-moment occurrence. Sherlock invited John out to Angelo's again on a Saturday night when neither one of them had anything good to do; read, Sherlock didn't have a case and John wasn't chasing a shag.

After John's confession, and Sherlock's subsequent revelation, they hadn't changed much around each other. John was a bit more careful about touching Sherlock, and Sherlock seemed to learn to grasp the concept of personal space.

"You going to eat?" John asked, sitting in his usual spot with his back to the window. Instead of sitting diagonal to him, as per usual, Sherlock sat next to him and pulled the menu up to himself.

"I think I will." He turned to John, his gaze flickering between John's mouth and his hands. "Listen… I've been thinking about…" He cleared his throat. "What you, ah, said. Last week."

John pursed his lips, and then stared off in the other direction. "Sherlock, I thought we agreed to let this go."

"I did no such thing." He shifted a bit closer. "If you're… if you're still interested, I want to…" He'd not felt this flustered since his university years.

"I am." John smiled at him, taking his hand with gentle fingers. "We can just try, Sherlock. It doesn't have to be anything too serious."

Sherlock froze, an oddly sharp memory of Sebastian's smug smile and a lipstick stain on his collar filling his vision. "So you'd still date?" he asked worriedly, sounding pathetically afraid.

John tightened his grip on Sherlock's hand. "No, of course not. It would be me and you, Sherlock, but you could change your mind at any time."

"Ah. Thank you." The detective leaned forward, hesitated, and then pressed his lips to John's. The kiss was soft and yielding, something Sherlock was definitely not used to, and there wasn't any pain. He pulled away, his eyebrows drawn together. "Am I doing it wrong?"

John frowned back. "It was fine, Sherlock. It was good. Why, what's wrong?"

Sherlock shook his head, and then relented, licking his lips before speaking. "It's supposed to hurt, isn't it? Someone… my first…" He rubbed across his nose with his free hand. "He said if it doesn't hurt, then the other person doesn't really…" His mouth twitched and he went quiet.

John seemed not to understand for a few seconds. "If it doesn't…?" Then realisation dawned and his hand tightened around Sherlock's. "I can assure you, Sherlock, whoever told you that was lying to you. And I'm sorry they did."

Sherlock risked a look at him and almost sighed in relief. It seemed John couldn't deduce the whole story. If he did, he would surely leave Sherlock, and then he would really be done. John was his last important connection, besides The Work, which he was cheating on now, wasn't he? Or John and The Work had become one and the same, as important as the other.

The Work was his intellectual stimulation. John made him feel alive in every other way. He smiled, a true smile, and practically glowed when John smiled back. Perhaps this "try" would end up as something good.


	5. Chapter 5

**Bit of a timeline change, I think. So, this story has been taking place between A Study in Pink and The Blind Banker, technically, but that has to be a long period of time for the story to work. So let's just pretend it's been about five months since A Study in Pink? (I'm not too keen on the actual separation of the cases.)**

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"_You're up early."_

_Sherlock blinked the sleep out of his eyes, his mind already whirring. "I couldn't sleep," he replied softly._

"_I thought I tired you out last night." Sebastian smirked down at him. "Did you want more? You should have asked."_

_He remembered. The cocaine, the rush, the pain, his thoughts on overdrive, trying to burn out of his skull. Sebastian offered to share him with a friend, and he refused. "No more," he replied. The low was coming, he could feel it. He must have slept for under an hour, then. "Please, Seb, no more."_

_Sherlock heard footsteps down the hall. There were at least three pairs of shoes, two with a slight heel. Sherlock moaned in distress, rubbing at his itching skin and holding his arm out pleadingly, staring up at his boyfriend. If he could just get high again, maybe the pain wouldn't be so bad. Maybe he could take it._

_Sebastian only smiled at him. "I think you can handle it on your own."_

Sherlock felt rather than heard John come into the sitting room, but he didn't stop playing his violin. He continued to sway back and forth with the music, his eyes closed, occasionally leaning forward at a particularly fast line. About halfway through the piece he stopped and smiled. "Of course."

Sherlock turned around and set his violin down in its case, finally relaxed enough to just _think,_ and reached into the pocket of his jacket for his phone.

"That was beautiful," John commented, still standing in the doorway.

Sherlock looked up, grinning. "Was it?" he asked absently, still typing. "I hadn't noticed."

John smiled back momentarily, but it fell, and he suddenly looked very sad. "Sherlock, can I talk to you?"

"If it's going to be something boring, then no." He put on his scarf and was shrugging on his jacket when he caught John's expression. "John?"

"Last night… I think you were having a nightmare again?"

Sherlock's entire body went cold. His eyes flickered rapidly between the floor and the fireplace, as if he were trying to pinpoint a thought. "I don't remember."

"Who is Sebastian?"

Where he was so confident before, Sherlock thought he might vomit at the sound of that name coming out of John's mouth. "No one of consequence." He rubbed his forearm. "Are you coming? We have to get to Scotland Yard and tell Lestrade…" He continued babbling, thrusting John's coat at him and taking the stairs two at a time.

He flagged down a cab, eyes bright with something half excitement and half fear. "And maybe we should both just forget about it; you have no theory because you have no data—"

John peered suspiciously at him. "I have data. I have a name. Who is Sebastian?"

"No one, John. Please." There seemed to be something in his tone that made John back down, only a slight frown on his lips. "Thank you."

Sherlock opened the cab door for him, his good mood not completely shattered, and told the cabbie their destination. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a while, Sherlock mulling over his most recent nightmare, until John made a sudden shift closer to him. Sherlock flinched away, the beginnings of a negative response on his lips, before he caught himself and frowned.

John thankfully didn't comment, except for a slight dilation of his pupils, and continued to take Sherlock's hand. "We're all right, Sherlock," he murmured.


	6. Chapter 6

**Clarification. Four months before part 5 was A Study In Pink. This begins the fifth month. Err, I hope this isn't terribly confusing.**

**Also, fudging the facts in The Blind Banker. Most of the lines are correct, though.**

**You'll see what I changed ;)**

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_Sherlock's fingers were shaking as he reached for the little glass bottle and his syringe. The needle was starting to dull from overuse but he began to crave the pain almost as much as the drugs._

"_A little more," he told himself with wide smile. He could hear the blood thrumming in his veins, and it excited him to the point of arousal. Or maybe that was the X that he nicked from Sebastian's night table._

_Lights and colours blurred into one another. He could taste his own giddiness. "Just… a little more…"_

Sherlock shifted back and forth on his feet nervously. John paused on his way into the kitchen and looked over him. "Bored?" he asked sympathetically.

"Not exactly." He twisted his hands together, and then reached out for John, who immediately responded and pulled him into his arms. Sherlock took a deep breath. "I think… could we try?"

A little over a month after their first kiss, and he was already asking for sex? Sherlock surprised himself sometimes. Apparently he surprised John too, because the doctor pulled back a little to look into Sherlock's eyes. "Are you sure?" he asked, then backtracked, "I trust your judgment, of course, but we still haven't discussed your—"

"Insecurities, I know." Sherlock pressed his nose into the spot behind John's ear. "I'm ready."

"Okay. Okay," John said, taking Sherlock's hand and going upstairs to his bedroom. Sherlock could see what he was doing; if Sherlock bolted, he would have somewhere private to go. He hoped his night wouldn't begin in John's room and end in his own, but he was already keyed up in anxiety.

Sherlock was already down to his trousers and pants when John turned away from his bed. Deep blue eyes blinked up at him. "Not good?"

"A bit not good, yeah." John touched his cheek, and then let his hand slide down to his chest. "Slow down, Sherlock. It isn't a race." He pressed a few gentle kisses to the corner of Sherlock's lips until they turned up in a smile. "There. Now, come on."

John's hands were hesitant against his skin, as if judging where it was okay to touch. Sherlock watched him quietly, complacently, until his fingers made it to the band of Sherlock's trousers. He swallowed and looked away, blinking rapidly. "Sherl—"

They were interrupted by the beeping of Sherlock's mobile. No matter what he felt for John, there was always the irresistible pull of The Work; he leaned forward to kiss John gratefully and went back out into the sitting room for his phone.

John was only a few steps behind him, looking only half put-out. Sherlock closed his eyes, gripping his mobile like he wanted to break it, before picking up his discarded button down and pulling it back on. "I need to go to the bank," he said simply, also grabbing his scarf and coat.

"Sherlock? Wait!" The detective paused momentarily, waiting for John at the front door, and when he left the flat Sherlock closed the door with more force than was necessary. "Why exactly are we going to the bank?"

"Case." Sherlock rubbed at his forearm, something he'd been doing more and more recently, and took a deep breath. "John…" _Please don't hate me._

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing."

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Sherlock kept to himself on the way there, his lips pressed together in irritation. He could feel John's confused, anxious gaze on his back, but he ignored it for the most part. His hands were in the pockets of his coat, his fists clenching and unclenching. This would not go well if he couldn't calm down.

He couldn't help but observe everything that passed, his eyes flickering over clocks and cities and countries. So Sebastian had done well for himself. Pity. Sherlock had assumed that he burned out in his mid twenties, from all the drugs they were doing.

_Hopefully_ he wouldn't show any weaknesses in front of his old boyfriend.

"Sherlock Holmes," he told the woman at the front desk. It was now or never.

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"Sherlock Holmes," Sebastian said cockily, that same fucking smirk as always plastered on his face.

"Sebastian," Sherlock replied, his hand already up for a polite handshake. He couldn't even muster up a fake smile, knowing John's expression without seeing it: realisation, and then anger.

"How are you buddy? How long has it been? Six years, since I last clapped eyes on you?" Sebastian continued, his grip just a bit too tight on Sherlock's hand.

When Sebastian finally let go and his gaze shifted to John, Sherlock tensed. "This is my _friend_, John Watson."

Sebastian looked surprised, and rightfully so. "Friend?" he repeated. Sherlock had never had friends, and certainly wouldn't call anyone close to him more than an only marginally-irritating acquaintance.

"Boyfriend," John corrected, glancing at Sherlock. Then he took Sebastian's hand and gave it a firm shake as well.

"Right," Sebastian muttered, the smirk growing wider. His eyes flickered from Sherlock's to the wall behind him. He looked like he was holding in laughter. "Grab a queue."

Sherlock couldn't ignore the hurt that wrapped around his heart at that. Sebastian still didn't think that he was worthy of anyone. Maybe, just maybe, he was believing it again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw John purse his lips in frustration.

"You need anything? Coffee? Water?"

"No," John refused through his teeth, taking a seat. Sherlock also couldn't ignore the fact that Sebastian was only speaking to the doctor.

Sherlock decided it was on him to start damage control. "So, you're doing well… you've been abroad a lot," he murmured.

"Well, some."

"Flying all the way around the world, twice in a month?"

John turned his head toward him, a slight frown on his face.

"Right," Sebastian chuckled, pointing a seemingly playful finger at him. "You're doing that thing." He swiveled his chair toward John. "We were at Uni together. This guy here had a trick he used to do."

"It's not a trick," Sherlock said almost under his breath.

"He could look at you and tell your whole life story," Sebastian continued as if he hadn't spoken.

"Yes, I've seen him do it," John said with a bit of affection, his hand shifting on his armrest closer to Sherlock.

Sebastian acted like Sherlock wasn't even in the room. "He put the wind up everybody. We hated him."

_That _stung. Sherlock spent years believing that Sebastian loved him more than anyone. Hearing the truth again made him want to rip his heart out—it didn't matter if it was his or Sebastian's that went.

"You would come down to breakfast in the formal hall and this _freak _would know you'd been shagging the previous night."

"I simply observed." He couldn't meet Sebastian's eyes any longer. Every time he did, he felt sick and disgusting.

"Go on, enlighten me. Two trips in a month, flying all the way around the world. Quite right. How could you tell?" He didn't wait for Sherlock to respond; the smirk was back full force. "You gonna tell me there was, err, a stain on my tie from some special kind of catsup you can only buy in Manhattan?"

John laughed derisively, his angrily pressed mouth turned up in a smile.

Sherlock resisted looking at him. There was a burning behind his eyes that would manifest in tears with the right trigger. "No, I—"

"Maybe it was the mud on my shoes?"

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Sherlock spoke up. "I was just chatting with your secretary outside. She told me."

Sebastian laughed, his too-sharp canines in full view. Sherlock tilted his head with a faux smile of his own. "I'm glad you could make it over. We've had a break in."

Sherlock hated it. He hated helping Sebastian after all he did, but this was his chance to prove to him that he could survive on his own, and that he wasn't as broken as Sebastian left him all those years ago.

With any luck, John wouldn't find out just how broken that was.

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**I know I said that reviews aren't necessary, but a lot of you have alerted and favourited and not said a word. I'd like to know how the story is getting along for you. It would help both of us if you told me :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Wow, I am so sorry guys. I wasn't able to work on the fic this week and I just realised that I didn't post anything for the last few days D:**

**Here's one with awkward almost-sex, for your enjoyment.**

**Also, I'm breaking my promise, and the chapters will be posted every three days. (reviews are still appreciated, and telling me what you want **_**really**_** helps in the story-writing process….)**

**Sorry again!**

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"_Get out," Sebastian murmured, pushing Sherlock away from his bed. "I'm done with you."_

_Pale blue-green eyes blinked rapidly. "But Seb, I thought—Sebastian, I love you!"_

"_I said get out, Freak. I have a date tonight." Sebastian raised a hand as if to hit Sherlock, who shrank back. "You're lucky I'm just letting you leave. I should kill you, for the trouble you've put me through, you—"_

"Sherlock?" John asked softly, setting a steaming cup of tea in front of the detective. "You were gone for a second there."

"Thinking," Sherlock replied. He gratefully accepted the tea, trying to get his hands to stop shaking, and watched John sit across from him.

John pursed his lips, looking at the floor, before murmuring, "So that was Sebastian."

Sherlock nodded.

"A right bastard, I think."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up for a moment. "Indeed."

"And he hurt you."

"Yes."

John didn't seem to know what to do. His eyes would meet Sherlock's, then look quickly away, and he seemed to be debating speaking again. "How did he hurt you?" he asked after a few minutes.

Sherlock set his tea down and folded his hands in his lap. "The usual. Schoolyard bullying." He swallowed hard. "We dated… for a while. I thought I loved him."

"Is that why you didn't want this? Us?"

Sherlock nodded again, seeming to shrink back in his chair.

John sat back as well. "I'm sorry. Was it because of me, that the nightmares started?"

"Not necessarily." He scratched a nail over the fabric of his trousers. "I don't sleep much," he said in lieu of explanation. What he _meant _was that he stayed awake to avoid those nightmares. Fortunately, John couldn't read his expressions as well as he could read John's.

"I don't expect you to, ah, finish what we started."

"I didn't think you'd want to." Sherlock could hardly ignore the contraction of his heart at John's dismissive tone, so he turned away, trying to keep the hurt off of his face.

His flatmate shook his head, leaned forward, and touched Sherlock's hand with his own. "I do want to. But you're pressured from… _him_, and I don't want you to be pressured from me as well." John stood, carding his fingers gently through Sherlock's hair, and then reached out to take his hand. "You won't want to sleep, I know, but at least get more comfortable."

"I—Can you stay with me?" Sherlock found himself asking, his face red with embarrassment.

John smiled softly at him. "Of course. Where's that second favourite dressing gown of yours? I know you spilled blood on your blue one…"

"My room." Sherlock pulled his hand free, going into his bedroom and searching through his closet. John stood in the doorway, waiting for him, and took his hand again when he was holding his pyjamas.

"You know, Sherlock, you can tell me anything. You're a private person by rote, but if there's something you're upset about, you can talk about it."

The detective tilted his head, following John up the stairs to his room. "Is this still about Sebastian?" he asked, bemused.

"Not entirely." John sat on his bed and patted the spot beside him. "It's about everything."

Sherlock bit his lip, then turned and pressed a quick kiss to John's cheek. "Thank you for offering," he murmured, his gaze falling to the floor again. John pressed warm fingers to the side of his jaw and turned him back, capturing his lips in a more meaningful kiss. The clothing fell forgotten off the side of the bed onto the floor as John pushed him onto his back.

"Is this okay?" John asked softly, as if afraid of shattering the mood. Sherlock nodded, wrapping his arms around John's neck, and moaned low in his throat as a reply. John's hesitant fingers brushed through Sherlock's hair, then trailed down over his neck to his shoulders and down his arms. "Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?"

"No," Sherlock breathed back. John huffed angrily but didn't press, unbuttoning Sherlock's dress shirt and touching the skin underneath. Sherlock bucked up against him, his pale eyes fluttering closed.

"I don't think we're ready to go too far," John mumbled, mostly to himself, while undoing Sherlock's zip and tugging his trousers down. "How about we take it slow, hm?"

Sherlock sat up angrily, all but pushing John off of him. "Why would we 'take it slow'? You think I'm damaged or something? I don't need you to treat me like a china doll, John."

John held his wrists to keep him still. "I know. Trust me." His dark eyes took on a light that, at any other time, would have made Sherlock proud, but now, he was dreading the outcome. Any deduction about this could only be bad news. "This is Sebastian again, isn't it? And it wasn't just schoolyard bullying. He hurt you."

"Every relationship has pain in it." He sighed quietly. "John, let's just get this over with." Sherlock kicked his trousers all the way off, opening his legs and staring unnervingly at John, who was frowning back. "It'll take five minutes. Get a leg over; maybe you'll ease up a bit."

The doctor set his hands on Sherlock's knees and closed his legs forcefully. "Sherlock, that's not how you do it."

Sherlock gave him a patronizing look. "John, do I have to walk you through this? You stick your penis—"

"You know that's not what I meant!" John stood up and ran his hands through his hair. "I'm not going to assault you for sex. You have to want it as much as I do."

"I do want it. I do." Sherlock sat up. "John, I'm sorry. _Sebastian_," that word was hissed, "pissed me off today."

John eyed him for a moment, then leaned forward and kissed his forehead. "No worries, Sherlock. It's not good to have angry sex anyways."

"Angry sex is the only sex I've ever had." He reached down and picked up his pyjama pants, pulling them on. "It was worth a shot." He picked up the robe as well and headed for the door. "I'll be downstairs."

"Sherlock," John started.

The detective turned to smile at him. "I'm fine, John."

He wasn't.


	8. Chapter 8

**Ah, you know what I just realised? John was supposed to go out with Sarah this episode. That can't happen for his and Sherlock's relationship to work. Oops! Let's just push their relationship to the side… and over this cliff and into the abyss. Good.**

_**This**_** is the reason I'm not going into the case so much as the relationship aspect. I have to fuck everything up to fit the Johnlock in. But it's worth it.**

**Another note: I do mean six years instead of eight. You'll see what I mean.**

**Another note, sorry: I tried to keep everything third person limited by Sherlock, but some of John's thoughts and feelings might have slipped in there.**

**Thank you all so much for sticking with this story :)**

* * *

_For a few months, Sherlock kept to himself more than usual, avoiding every place he knew Sebastian or one of his friends would be. He tried to tell himself he didn't care anymore, and that he didn't need Sebastian to function, but sometimes it hurt too much to even think of him._

_He still used, coming into class high as a kite, but he didn't talk enough to have it noticed. He burned through his allowance from Mycroft for morphine and coke, losing more weight than he could spare. Without Sebastian, there was no one to force him to eat, or beat him until he blacked out for a night, so he drifted around the campus as light and pale as a ghost._

_It almost wasn't worth living anymore, but he survived, wishing and hoping that Sebastian, even with his flaws, would take him back._

_At the very end of his second year, Sebastian cornered him in an empty lecture hall and propositioned him. He accepted, got a good hard fucking over the lectern, and Sebastian went on his way. Sherlock couldn't keep the smile off of his face for some time._

* * *

"Here," John murmured, handing Sherlock a cigarette as they walked out of the flat, leaving Dimmock and the rest of the Yard behind. "You look like you need it."

Sherlock couldn't be sure if it was a test or not, but he really didn't need the caress of smoke in his lungs just yet, and he was already sporting two nicotine patches, so he pushed it back into John's hands. "I'm fine."

The doctor's relieved smile confirmed that it was a test. Sherlock was mildly proud of himself. "Good." John straightened his jacket against the cold. "That DI seems like a clot," he said conversationally, gently brushing his arm against Sherlock's as he waved for a cab.

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "Lestrade is much smarter than him, no matter how big an idiot he is." John opened the door for him and he slid inside, hesitating only a moment before telling the cabbie where to go. He wouldn't say he was _dreading_ going to Sebastian, but he definitely wasn't looking forward to it.

"Ta," John replied wryly. "Sebastian is going to be disappointed that his trader is dead, isn't he?"

Pale eyes flickered over him, and then Sherlock looked away. "I hate him," he said, his voice as cool as if he were talking about the weather. "Our murderer needs to change his targets."

John's warm hand found its way into his, holding tightly. "I know enough about him that I hate him as well."

"I couldn't pass up this case," Sherlock began as if he were defending himself. "_He_ needs _me_ for the first time, and I want… I want to…"

"Prove to him that you can do it." John nodded. "Of course, Sherlock. I'm happy to help."

Sherlock chuckled and gave John's hand a squeeze, slipping their joined hands into his pocket. "Where would I be without you?"

* * *

The consulting detective had called ahead, asking Sebastian's secretary where he would be at that time—it was unlikely that he would be in his office all day, and Sherlock had gotten a glimpse of his desk planner: meetings all the way down the page.

He and John walked into the restaurant with purpose, Sherlock with slight trepidation. Sebastian was there with some of his coworkers, his sharp canines glinting in the low light. He looked like he was in the middle of a story but Sherlock strode over anyway, his head held high. "It was a threat; that's what the graffiti meant."

Sebastian looked as if he was smiling, but his eyes were hateful. Just as Sherlock remembered. "I'm kind of in a meeting," he said slowly, glancing around at his colleagues. "Can you make an appointment with my secretary?"

"I don't think this can wait. Sorry Sebastian. One of your traders, someone who works in your office, was killed."

"What?" Sebastian asked, not the slightest frown marring his features.

"van Coon," John supplied. "The police are at his flat."

"_Killed_?" Sebastian repeated. His usual smirk was gone; Sherlock took a perverse pleasure in knowing _he _made it happen.

"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion." Sherlock's gaze landed on every man at the table before settling back on Sebastian. "Still want to make an appointment? Would, maybe, nine o'clock at Scotland Yard suit?"

The banker looked away from him, loosening his collar, then excused himself from the table and led the way to the restrooms.

Sebastian began to wash his hands, his back to Sherlock and John. "Harrow, Oxford, very bright guy." He looked in the mirror at Sherlock for a moment, his gaze loaded. "Worked in Asia for a while, so…"

"You gave him the Hong Kong accounts," John surmised, one assuming eyebrow raised. Sebastian barely nodded in his direction.

"Lost five million in a single morning," Sebastian continued, "Made it all back a week later. Nerves of steel, though."

John shifted a little, taking in Sherlock's pensive expression, and then looking back at Sebastian. "Who'd want to kill him?"

"We all make enemies."

"You don't all end up with a bullet through your temple," John said. He was immediately followed by the beeping of Sebastian's phone.

"Not usually," Sebastian said, then pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket. "Excuse me."

Sherlock remained still, only glancing toward Sebastian's mobile. Even after six years, being in a confined space with Sebastian made him think of blood and drugs and screaming, and he tried to keep as much space as wouldn't be suspicious between them.

John seemed to notice though, his eyes on Sherlock while Sebastian explained. "It's my chairman. The police have been onto him. Apparently they're telling him it was a suicide."

Sherlock had shifted, looking at the floor, but he looked back up at Sebastian's account of the text. "Well they've got it wrong, Sebastian, he was murdered," he insisted, trying to keep his voice level.

Sebastian paused. "Well." He shrugged a bit. "I'm afraid they don't see it like that," he said dismissively.

"Seb!" Sherlock shot back.

"And neither does my boss," Sebastian cut in. They stared at each other for a moment, and it was as if they were back at University: Sebastian, the popular boy who used Sherlock as he pleased, and Sherlock, the forced, abused addict who clung to Sebastian like a lifeline. "I hired you to do a job. Don't get sidetracked."

Sherlock turned to watch him go, his lips pressed together to stop an outburst of insults, feeling as if he was unable to strike back.

"I thought bankers were all supposed to be heartless bastards," John murmured sarcastically, recognizing Sherlock's expression for what it was—a ticking time-bomb. Sooner or later, Sherlock was going to get angry, and it would _not _be pretty.

* * *

That night was spent in relative silence. John sat at one end of the sofa, his laptop balanced on the side table, one hand scrolling through the comments on his blog and the other slowly stroking Sherlock's hair, the detective's head in his lap. Occasionally Sherlock would push his nose into John's shirt, making a small sound of discontentment as he thought. John would just rub his thumb across Sherlock's left temple until he calmed again.

"We need to find out what those symbols mean," Sherlock murmured eventually, only mildly startling John. "They're the only thing we have to go on right now."

"_I_ need to sleep," John replied softly. "I have a job interview tomorrow."

Sherlock huffed, the hot breath dampening the fabric of John's shirt. "I told you, use my card."

"I'm not going to rely on your brother's money, Sherlock."

"It's _my_ money! I do get paid for cases, John, it's how I pay half the rent."

John twirled a lock of Sherlock's hair around his finger. "I'm not going to rely on your money either. How am I to pay my half?"

"Pension."

"It's not enough."

Sherlock blinked a few times, and then turned over to stare at the doctor. "Your army pension isn't enough to pay for _half_ of our rent? Even with Mrs. Hudson knocking off a couple hundred quid? How did you stay in your other flat?"

"I—" Sherlock could tell John was holding something back, but he didn't push. John had been patient with him and he would return the favour. "I was used to army rations, so I didn't need that much food. It was a small flat, so I didn't have to spend that much on electricity…" He went quiet again.

Sherlock sat up and pressed his lips to John's, a chaste kiss, before pulling back and searching John's eyes. "It's not going to happen again," he murmured.

John didn't seem to have a reply to that, cupping Sherlock's pale face in his hand to bring him forward for another kiss. They were innocent brushes of lips for a while, neither one of them willing to push the other, but John eventually took charge, ever-so-gently slipping his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and coaxing his into play.

Sherlock pulled back after only a few minutes, his cheeks red with half embarrassment and half arousal. "John, that—"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I should have asked."

"No, it was fine." He cleared his throat, his face going redder. "It was good."

John smiled crookedly at him. "A bit of necking on the sofa? We can do that any time you want, Sherlock." He stood up, snapping his laptop closed and going to put out the fire in the fireplace. "Except for right now. I do want that job."

Sherlock watched him putter around, two fingers resting on his bottom lip. "Sure. I'll be… researching." John leaned down to peck his forehead before making his way upstairs for bed.

Sherlock's eyes closed and the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. It had taken him half a decade, but he did find someone who wanted him back. Sebastian was wrong and it had never felt so good to know.

* * *

**Thank you for reading and please review!**


	9. sleepily written notes

**author's notes**

****thank you anon. i couldn't find any transcripts, and i assumed harrier, like, yknow, runner, but i suppose it makes no sense in context.

thank you other reviewers, for taking a moment to tell me about the story.

thank you readers, for reading.


	10. Chapter 9

**I'm having serious writer's block so have some more fluff :|**

* * *

Sherlock eventually followed John upstairs, only briefly noting the time as near midnight and dismissing it immediately. He knocked softly and hesitantly on John's door, heartened by the fact that it wasn't all the way shut. "Are you still awake?" he whispered.

"Mm, no," John replied, but his bedside table light flickered on. "But come in."

The consulting detective pushed the door open a bit more and stepped inside. "It's cold downstairs," he offered, looking over to John, who was sitting up against the headboard of his bed and rubbing his eyes sleepily.

"I'd imagine. Come on then." John pulled back the duvet and patted the spot beside him in invitation. "You could at least be comfortable while you think."

While Sherlock was in no way adverse to the touch of those he had more than a slight margin of care for, he was surprised that John was constantly inviting him into his embrace. "Really?" Sherlock asked slowly, wary to be in John's bed, even if they were building a margin of physical trust.

"If it makes you uncomfortable, of course you don't _have_ to." John watched Sherlock levelly and comfortingly but there was no pity or sympathy in his eyes. "You can just… sit at the end. I really do have to get to sleep, though."

"So that means you don't want anything?" Sherlock rubbed his shoulder. "You're just going to sleep, and not… want _anything_?"

John quietly considered him. "Of course I want something. I want you to be happy. Or, as happy as I can make you. If avoiding sexual contact with you is what you want, then it's what you get." He smiled, his eyes growing warmer than before. "You're cold, yeah? Then get over here, you daft nutter."

Sherlock walked over to him and sat in the empty space, going tense when John touched his back through his shirt and dressing gown but actively fighting that reaction. "Do you promise?" He felt sick for even asking. "If I want to leave, you'll let me?"

"I promise, Sherlock, I won't do anything that you don't want. Ever." John removed his hand and folded both in his lap.

After a few quiet moments, Sherlock lay down and turned to John, staring up at him. "I'm alright."

John mirrored him, pulling the duvet over both of them and leaving the dim light on. "Good. Can I hold you?"

Sherlock blinked and smiled a bit, shuffling closer to John and pressing his face into the warm juncture between John's neck and shoulder. "Go to sleep," he mumbled, his voice muffled.

"You should too. But I know you won't." John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and pulled them even closer together. "Wish me luck on this job."

"You don't need luck, John." Sherlock sighed and shifted, brushing John's nose with his mass of curls. "Sleep," he repeated softly.

The doctor pressed a loving kiss to the top of his head and closed his eyes, his warm body becoming even warmer with sleep. Sherlock smiled secretly to himself, relieved that his body hadn't completely refused John's touch, and closed his eyes as well, searching the vast stores of his mind for something, anything, that would solve the case.


	11. Chapter 10

**Second to last chapter, loves. Thanks for reading!**

* * *

_Mycroft was insufferable, as always. He tried to get Sherlock clean through force, through bribes, through threats, through guilt trips, but Sherlock remained stubborn and got high as much as he could afford to._

_Eventually, Mycroft gave up, surrendering to Sherlock's addiction. Their last conversation in Sherlock's university days was heated and hurtful. Sherlock declared his brother his "archenemy" and they parted ways._

_Sebastian took advantage of his emotional distress, seeking him out between dates and relationships for a quick shag or a bit of petting. Sherlock accepted every advance, taking solace in the fact that, even if his love was unrequited, he had a chance to kiss Sebastian every once in a while._

_It was almost enough._

* * *

It was domestic bliss, Sherlock mused to himself over the newspaper. He and John, sitting quietly across from each other, their ankles brushing every so often and gentle smiles passing between them, were the picture of contentment. Sherlock sighed and dropped the first section of the paper to the desk.

"Over a thousand years old," John began, and Sherlock's gaze flickered up to him and back to the rest of the day's paper. "And it's sitting on her bedside table every night."

"He didn't know its value," Sherlock replied in a low voice. "Didn't know why they were chasing him."

John hummed in understanding. "He should have just got her a lucky cat."

Sherlock smiled briefly at him, the ghost of a laugh issuing from his mouth, but then his expression was pensive again. The doctor eyed him warily.

"You mind, don't you?" Sherlock turned back to John curiously, noting how concerned he looked and how the maturity was offset by his hands folded in front of him. He looked younger when his hazel eyes were filled with care.

"What?"

"That she escaped. General Shan. It's not enough that we got her two henchmen."

That hit the proverbial nail on the head. "Must be a vast network, John. Thousands of operatives. You and I? We barely scratched the surface."

"You cracked the code, though, Sherlock, and maybe Dimmock can track down all of them now that he knows it."

It was a nice thought, and Sherlock envied his boyfriend for his optimism, but that didn't stop his answer slipping out even before John was finished speaking. "No." He paused. "No, I cracked this code. All the smugglers have to do is pick up another book." He opened the paper, only half paying attention, and watched the young man on the street spray-paint some new symbol on a post.

"And our employer?"

Sherlock frowned. "We received compensation. I'd prefer not to think of him again."

John pushed his plate away, running his fingers though his short golden hair. "Sherlock, we have to talk about this. And what better time than when you're free of cases?"

"What if I don't want to talk about it?" Sherlock admonished himself for sounding petulant, but couldn't help it. John was prying in something Sherlock had managed to keep quiet for years. "Sebastian hit me a little when we were in University. I got over him."

"Come here." John slid his chair back and opened his arms. "It's just you and me, Sherlock."

The consulting detective hesitated to stand, clutching the newspaper and it's painfully obvious cases in a nervous grip, before he took a few long strides toward John and sat in his lap, straddling his toned thighs. "He hit me quite a lot, actually," he murmured, wrapping his arms around John's neck and pressing his nose into the shorter man's hair. "Almost every day. I used a lot of concealer back then."

John held him around the waist and kissed his neck a few times. "Is that why you flinched from me so many times?" He could feel Sherlock swallow under his lips.

"A bit. Not much." Sherlock closed his eyes and tightened his thighs around John's hips. "He, ah… I lost my virginity to him. I was in my early twenties and everyone else around me had already been active for years." He swallowed again. "I've always had a low libido. Sebastian… didn't. If I didn't want it, he would take it. If neither of us wanted it, his friends would take it."

The doctor's loose grip tightened suddenly. "Sherlock, you—they did _what_?"

"I got used to it," Sherlock continued, determined not to lose steam. If he stopped now he probably wouldn't be able to start again. "I started cocaine. _He_ started me on cocaine. It really helped with the pain, you know? Sometimes I got a bit too high and he would counter it with morphine." He laughed hollowly. "It was hard to juggle both addictions but I have an exceptional mind and it became habit."

John stroked the base of his spine from under his dressing gown, sliding his cool fingers into the gap between Sherlock's shirt tails and his trousers. "You are truly amazing, Sherlock. Truly amazing. Bloody brilliant, too, to get through that alone."

Sherlock shrugged his narrow shoulders. "I was forced to get clean eventually. It hurt so much… it hurt more than anything Sebastian could ever do. And now here we are."

"You're holding back so much, aren't you Sherlock?" John reached behind his head and captured Sherlock's hands in his. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, but… Christ, if this is still hurting you, you should share it with me."

"Maybe one day." He allowed himself to be pushed off of John's lap and dragged upstairs. "You aren't put off by this?"

"Put off by what? Your resilience? Or my hatred for that clot of a banker?"

Sherlock sat on the edge of John's bed, watching the shorter soldier close the blinds to the morning sun but leave the bedroom door wide open. "I'm already used." He smirked wryly. "Thank you for being so careful, but I don't _need_ that. You can just sort of… stick it in, and we'll be fine."

"If I wanted a quick shag, maybe." He pushed Sherlock onto his back and kissed him chastely. "But I… I love you, quite a lot, and you deserve more than that." John unbuttoned Sherlock's dress shirt and pushed it from his shoulders along with his dressing gown, smiling indulgently at the pale skin that was revealed.

Sherlock's slight frown deepened and he blinked rapidly, fighting the burning sensation behind his eyes. "You love me?"

"I do. Of course I do, how could I not?" John kissed the lines on his forehead worriedly. "I can stop saying it if it makes you uncomfortable."

"It doesn't really." Sherlock murmured, and then closed his eyes. "Could we turn the lights off? I don't want you to see… _this_."

John opened his mouth, his expression one that usually preceded protest, but he only stood and did what Sherlock asked. They were plunged into darkness, only a faint light from the street between the curtains giving Sherlock's pale eyes a predatory glow. "You're beautiful, Sherlock."

"Mm," Sherlock mumbled, pulling John back on top of him and between his legs. "Do you have lubricant? It's alright if you don't."

"I wouldn't do this if I didn't." John clenched and unclenched his fingers above Sherlock's head, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. Sherlock looked up at him, barely able to see him through the thick darkness, but he could feel his tenseness. "I also have condoms. Are you not used to those, either?"

Sherlock visibly recoiled, turning his head away. "I am _clean_. Just because… just because I've been _fucked_ more times than I can remember doesn't mean I haven't—"

John silenced him with a kiss to the corner of his mouth, wiping a thumb under his eye to catch a tear that hadn't fallen yet. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean to snap at you." He slid his hands around Sherlock's waist and kissed him again, waiting until he was relaxed to pull back. "Can I undress you?"

The detective nodded at him, lifting his hips to allow John to pull his trousers and pants off, then waiting quietly for his next instruction. John stroked his thighs, coaxing them back open, and then pulling his striped jumper over his head and dropping it onto the floor. "Should I turn over?" Sherlock mumbled, eyeing the strip of condoms John procured from his bedside table.

"It depends. What seems more comfortable for you?" John tore off one of the condoms, dropped it on the bed beside them, and carded his fingers through Sherlock's thick curls. "I would prefer to kiss you while we make love, but…"

The seemingly unflappable Sherlock Holmes blushed high on his sharp cheekbones. "Alright." He unbuttoned John's fly with shaking fingers, his blush growing darker at the prominence under the dark fabric of his jeans, but his own penis was flaccid against his thigh, refusing to show interest.

John caught sight of this and bit his lip. "If you're not ready, we don't have to do this," he said slowly, shifting to get his own trousers and pants off.

"I'm perfectly ready, why wouldn't I be ready?"

John replied with a soft laugh, and stroked Sherlock's dark locks away from his eyes. "Okay. I believe you. But if you're uncomfortable with anything, tell me_immediately_."

Sherlock nodded grudgingly, his annoyed expression replaced with surprise when John leaned forward and their arousals brushed. "Oh!" he gasped, startled by his body's positive reaction. "Do that again?"

"My pleasure." John thrust a bit harder against him, intertwining their fingers and stretching Sherlock's arms above his head. The younger man looked lost, his eyes shut tightly and his bottom lip between his teeth, turning white from pressure. The doctor slowed his movements, hesitant, but Sherlock bucked against him.

"What if we just…" he began, extricating his hands to wrap his arms around John's broad shoulders. "I'd really prefer we didn't…"

John stared down at him, smiling in a comforting way. "If we didn't what, love? Explain it to me. Small words, if you wouldn't mind."

Sherlock breathed an unsure laugh, tightening his thighs against John's hips. "Do you know what frottage is?"

"Yes. Is that what you want?"

"After my last relationship, I would prefer you didn't penetrate." He shifted a bit uncomfortably. "If that's alright."

John kissed across Sherlock's sharp cheekbone, slowly and arrhythmically thrusting against Sherlock's precome-slicked stomach. "Thank you for telling me," he murmured.

The younger man bit back a moan, attempting to even out the long, slow strokes into something that would bring him to orgasm. John allowed him to, pressing himself harder against Sherlock's pale chest until he could feel his heartbeat. Their movements became more urgent; Sherlock leaned up for kisses more than once, but would break away after a second to softly gasp his pleasure, and John would take the opportunity to compliment him.

"John, John," Sherlock began to moan, pressing little crescent marks from his fingernails into the doctor's back. "Please, let me come, _please_."

John was disconcerted by exactly how vulnerable Sherlock sounded, as if he thought John could do anything but grant him his plea. "Come, Sherlock. I'm right here…"

Sherlock cried out as if he were in pain, ribbons of come coating his and John's stomach's and slicking John's movements. "J-John!"

"Sherlock," he replied, his mouth pressed hard on Sherlock's proffered throat. "Oh, God, Sherlock…" They were both still for a few moments, waiting for the aftershocks to settle and the afterglow to set in, until John rolled onto his back and laughed, surprised. "That… that was…"

The detective didn't answer, bringing shaking hands up to cover his reddened lips. "Is it always like that?" he asked in a whisper.

John held back his own anxiety for his boyfriend's sake, turning to stare through the darkness at Sherlock's eyes—still glinting faintly in the sliver of light that made it inside—and stroke his arm. "I like to think it is, especially when the participants love each other."

"Can I think about it, for a while?" Sherlock asked, his voice still small.

John ran a hand through his slightly damp and mussed dishwater hair. "Of course. All the time you need." It was still late morning, but John was willing to stay with Sherlock until the next morning came around. It was the least he could do for Sherlock allowing him into his very small bubble of trust. "If you want to talk about anything, I'm here."

Sherlock replied with a non-committal noise, folding his hands under his chin and closing his eyes. This new information would certainly take a while to process.


	12. Chapter 11

**Last chapter: this one has a lot of dialogue and explanations. This is actually the first multiple-part story I've ever finished. Let's all revel in my small victory (especially because I was distracted by a constant run of Top Gear and the squidgy cheeses in the foil packets while trying to write this chapter).**

* * *

"_Congratulations," Sherlock told Sebastian with a smile, standing at the edge of the stage after the graduation ceremony. Sebastian smiled back, leaning forward to place a gentle kiss on Sherlock's forehead before turning away and catching the arm of his newest girlfriend._

"_Sherlock, you've been very fun," the new graduate murmured. He slipped his arm around the tall blonde girl's waist, ignoring the way she looked Sherlock up and down and stood closer to him, obviously viewing Sherlock as a threat. "My friends and I have sung your praises, and I wish you the best of luck in being someone else's pet."_

_Pale eyes darkened drastically. "Could we… keep in touch?" he asked in a tone dripping with desire, one last ditch attempt to entice Sebastian's favour._

"_I think not, Sherlock. I'm off to bigger and better things." Sebastian squeezed the girl a bit, smirking widely at the exaggerated squeal she made. Sherlock gritted his teeth but took a bit of pride in noticing the large red mark on her cheek. Apparently no one was good enough not to be abused by him._

_Heaving a sigh and crossing his arms over his chest, Sherlock looked at his feet. "I love you, Sebastian." When there was no reply, he looked up again; Sebastian and his girlfriend were gone._

_Now Sherlock was left alone. He was still an outcast, still the bane of the school's existence, but now he didn't have_anyone_to use him. It was different in a better way than he would have thought in the thick of their relationship._

_But that loneliness had a bit more freedom. His highs were especially high and his lows were more bearable. His relationship with Mycroft became less antagonistic. A few of his classmates acknowledged him almost daily._

"_I want to get clean," he told Mycroft over the phone, sitting in a dark corner of his dormitory. "From both of them."_

"_I can rent you a flat and put you through rehabilitation," Mycroft agreed. Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice and, for the first time since Mycroft first left for his own university days, smiled back._

* * *

John was already downstairs when Sherlock made his way from the bedroom, sitting at the kitchen table with his hands around a steaming mug of coffee. "Evening," he greeted without looking up. "I was coming right back up."

Sherlock sat next to him and had a look round the newly-spotless kitchen. He knew from experience that John cleaned when he was stressed, and for him to wash and put up their best tea set told of particularly taxing thoughts. "I'm not going to tell you it was a mistake," Sherlock said softly.

Sky blue eyes flickered over to him, sweeping over his red dressing gown and mussed hair, before dropping back to the table. "Although it was?"

"It wasn't." Sherlock bit his kiss-pinked bottom lip. "I honestly… enjoyed it. A lot." He wrung his hands in his lap, seeming to debate his next words with himself, until finally opening his mouth and murmuring, "Sebastian never really cared about letting me finish."

The right side of John's mouth quirked up. "He was an idiot, then. I liked seeing you relax."

"_Feeling_, as it were."

"Were you taking the piss, leaving the lights off?" John asked, shifting a bit closer to Sherlock.

"No, no, I was genuinely uncomfortable." The detective shrugged. "I have scars and tracks and I don't really like to show them."

John lifted a warm hand to lay it on Sherlock's forearm, rubbing his thumb into the pale, cool skin. "That's very human of you," he teased.

"I'm willing to be a little more human if we could do that again." Sherlock pulled John's mug toward himself and took a sip of it.

"So it wasn't a bad experience for you?" John couldn't help overanalyzing. On the battlefield, there was no such thing as distinction when it came to those with medical degrees. Surgeons were also therapists most of the time; John had his share of talking to soldiers and civilians that had been abused, and was used to having people put their trust in his hands.

"That's odd, when you have your own trust issues," Sherlock mused softly.

John rolled his eyes. "Could you stop deducing my thoughts and answer the question?" He slid his cup back and took a mouthful, licking his lips.

Sherlock watched his tongue for a moment before shrugging narrow shoulders again, the thin fabric of his robe slipping down a bit to bare his smooth collarbone, just tinted with pink from John's attentions. "I told you I enjoyed it."

"Did you mean it? It doesn't matter what you said if you didn't mean it."

"John, listen. Have I ever been someone to do things I don't want to do?" Sherlock leaned forward to kiss the corner of John's mouth. "Don't worry. Really."

"Would you…" John began tentatively, letting Sherlock nurse his coffee again.

"Would I?"

"Tell me about it? I mean, you don't have to."

Sherlock rubbed his finger across the bridge of his nose self-consciously. "About Sebastian? I told you most of it this morning."

John could tell that Sherlock felt compelled to answer him, so he backed off, instead taking back his near-empty cup and drinking the rest of it. "I think we should get a takeaway. You haven't eaten today, have you?"

"No. Not Chinese."

"Right." John stood up and laid a gentle hand on the back of Sherlock's neck for a moment, then went off for the landline.

"And no curry!" Sherlock called after him.

* * *

It took about a week for the two of them to get past awkwardly forced touches and the avoidance of anything overtly sexual. John wasn't fond of pushing his partners—he believed consent was given in the moment and wasn't a season ticket—and Sherlock was preoccupied with figuring out what went wrong that was preventing John from going to him again.

Both of them were worried they'd botched their tentative-to-begin-with relationship. John had taken to leaving his bedroom door open at night, to somehow entice Sherlock inside, but the younger man avoided even looking up the stairs past the twenty-two mark, and developed a disturbing awareness of personal space.

The consulting detective was taken with "research". John tended not to disturb him when he was engrossed with an article (on his laptop or otherwise), so he had plenty of time in peace and quiet to stave off boredom by reading up on acceptable romantic behavior. It didn't take one experienced with a loving and trusting relationship to know that what Sherlock went through with Sebastian was _not_ normal, and gifts of cocaine and fear weren't the most welcome to someone he genuinely cared about.

Most of the gestures were material. Sherlock didn't think that John was a very material person, so those were delegated to holidays: he had seen that happen in many movies and the actions were better received when they had a specific reason. And, off the record, Sherlock didn't think he'd be any good at them anyway.

Others were more emotional, and as he worked his way through hatefully idiotic and yet grudgingly useful guides, he realized that John was doing most of them already. Giving him ample space was one of them. He had to admit that he was jumping at movement a lot more since opening himself up to John so carnally, and being alone helped him calm himself.

Sherlock looked up from his current article when John came past with a cup of tea, meeting his eyes. John smiled and stroked his hair before picking up his novel and settling back in his armchair. Sherlock licked his lips and closed his laptop to sit back and watch John read.

"Something wrong?" John asked eventually, peering over his book to study Sherlock with a concerned expression.

The articles (which Sherlock was completely and utterly done with; honestly, how did such stupidity ever learn to type?) all agreed that honesty was the best policy, and they hadn't had a proper talk since the day they first shagged. "Why haven't we continued having sex?"

John blinked at him. "I didn't think you wanted to, and I wasn't going to push."

"You can push if you want. I'll accept because I want it too. It wouldn't even be pushing, really."

John seemed distressed by Sherlock's obvious confusion. "That's another reason." He closed his book with a snap and set it on the table beside him. "I'm not like Sebastian. Let me finish," he said quickly, before Sherlock could interrupt, "Even if you want it at one point in time, you might not at another."

The younger man looked petulant, folding his arms over his chest. "So we're never going to have sex again, is what you're saying?"

"Of course not, you nutter." John's smile was warm and understanding. "I just have to trust you to know when you want it for you and when you want it for me."

"And do you?"

"Not when you say things like 'you can push if you want,' no."

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Does it help that I trust you not to push?" He took a little pride in the surprised widening of John's eyes. "I've never skirted around doing anything with you, John, and quite frankly it's annoying. I notice the way you look at my mouth but you never come forward, I notice how you leave your door open but you never invite me up—"

"Those cues are for you, Sherlock," John said, exasperated. "This is impossible to explain. You should just get used to it." He stood to take a few steps toward Sherlock, place a warm palm at the back of his head, and pull him forward into a kiss.

"Get used to it I shall, if it gets me more of this," Sherlock murmured against his lips, his own hands coming up to grip at the front of John's jumper and keep him close.

John licked a gentle line across Sherlock's lower lip, internally relieved when he didn't pull away. "Ta," he replied.

* * *

Two weeks and three minor cases later, John was awakened from a lie-in by his phone ringing. He groaned, turned his head toward the offensive sound, and instead met a mop of dark hair. "Sherlock, pass me my phone," he said softly into the detective's ear, pushing a few stray curls off of his forehead. "You awake, love?"

Sherlock shook his head as much he could, as it was pressed against John's right shoulder, and murmured an incoherent reply, the arm draped over John's chest tightening ever-so-slightly. John sighed and patted the bedside table, grabbing the phone and flipping it open. "I'd much like to get back to having a sleep with my gorgeous boyfriend, so make it quick," he said in a mildly-aggravated way.

"Apologies, Doctor Watson," Sebastian's snide voice replied. "I wasn't aware ten o'clock was an acceptable time to still be in bed."

"Piss off, tosser," John whispered hatefully, sliding his splayed fingers into Sherlock's sleep-warm curls in an effort to lull him back to sleep. "We solved your case and we got paid. I'm done with you."

Sebastain chuckled at him. "If you're still fucking that freak, I don't think you are. Come down to my office later today. I have a few things to discuss with you."

John was tempted to refuse, but Sherlock was pressing closely into his side and nuzzling his jaw in a sweetly tired way and John wanted to see the banker just to drop him for abusing someone so obviously perfect. "I'll be there around two."

"Good." With that, Sebastian hung up, and John was left to stare at the ceiling and gently massage Sherlock's scalp with his fingertips.

"Are you really going to see him?" Sherlock asked into the silence.

"I am."

"Should I come?"

John couldn't help but be a bit taken aback by Sherlock's unsure tone at the question—he didn't think he'd ever get used to the publically headstrong and ill-mannered detective being so venerable when they were at home. "You don't have to if you don't want to."

"I… I think I do."

"We can get up and eat something in a few. For now…" He rolled over, pushing Sherlock onto his back, and kissed him into incoherence.

By half one they were back at the international trading offices, John standing a bit more protectively near Sherlock as they made their way up once again. "I have three ideas why he invited me alone," John mused.

"Oh?" Sherlock replied, sweeping through the crowd in his normal commanding manner. "And what are they?"

"One, he wants me to leave you so he can take you back," John began, ticking off on his fingers, "Two, he wants to kill me because I actually know how to treat you, or three, he needs some advice on relationships."

A corner of Sherlock's mouth twisted up into an almost-smile. "I don't think it's the second or third."

"He would be ambitious to try any of them," he murmured, situating his hand into Sherlock's and giving it a squeeze.

"John!" Sebastian greeted, a shit-eating grin on his thin lips. "And… _Sherlock_."

Sherlock gritted his teeth but kept silent, his head down and some dark curls hanging over his eyes. John stepped in front of him, muttering, "Not here." Sebastian sneered at him, then turned and led them into his office.

"What do you want that was so important, Sebastian?" John spat. "I was just on the phone with you. You could have said it there."

"Well, your _partner_ is here, so I would prefer not to say—"

"Whatever you can say in front of him, you can say in front of me," Sherlock said through his teeth. John was unsurprised to see the banker's self-satisfied expression drop, replaced by one much the same as when John took his cheque. Properly annoyed, but not yet angry.

"You're very defensive of him. He can take it, but I'm not sure you can." Sebastian sat on the edge of his desk and folded his arms across his chest. "Would you like a little morphine to dull that pain, Sherlock?"

The detective drew himself up a bit, but John was quicker to reply. "If you called me here to prod me into leaving Sherlock, it wasn't ever going to work. No matter what names you call him or what _stories_ you share, I know he's a thousand times better a man than you are."

"John, you wound me," Sebastian satirized. "I only called you to give you some advice on disciplining him… ways to get him to shut absolutely up. He can get so infuriating." Sebastian's smirk turned positively malicious. "I find a cock in his arse and a cock in his mouth—"

He was cut off by a sharp right hook to his cheek, sending him crashing to the floor with John standing over him. "_Don't_," the doctor said quietly.

Sherlock had trouble hiding his sadistically pleased smile, but he continued to keep his distance from Sebastian, even as he was wiping his bloody lip. "I don't think you understand what you're up for," Sebastian hissed at John. "He's the sort that needs a good beating once in a while to keep him in line."

"You're the one that deserves a beating, Seb," Sherlock replied smoothly and dangerously, fisting his hands to cover up their trembling. "Unfortunately, I'm not one to give it to you. I _am_ sorry that you've continued to be abusive and can't keep a girlfriend. But take some solace in the fact that I am happy, and you have done nothing and will never do anything to spoil it."

John intertwined their fingers again. "I think we're done here, Sherlock, don't you?"

The detective nodded sharply, miming a doff of a hat at Sebastian before turning and stalking out of his office, John trailing behind him and keeping silent until they had caught another cab. "You all right?" John asked eventually.

"Hm? Yeah, fine. Fine." Sherlock flipped his mobile over in his hands a few times before shoving it back in his pocket.

"Do you want to talk?"

Sherlock seemed to consider his offer for a moment. "When we get home," he conceded.

John paid the cabbie and drew Sherlock into the flat behind him, immediately pressing him against the wall and placing his hands gently on either side of Sherlock's thin face. They stared at each other—John, searching Sherlock's expression for disquiet and Sherlock trying to convince him with his eyes that nothing was wrong—and after a while John pulled back. "Mycroft mentioned something about espionage, but I didn't get all the details," he said.

"Not interested," Sherlock replied tetchily, leaning forward to rest his forehead on John's shoulder. "I'm going back to bed until a truly _interesting_ case. You are welcome to join me." He didn't move though, taking slow breaths until John took a step back and kissed his cheek.

"I am very proud of you, Sherlock. You stood up to someone from your past and didn't let them get to you. A _complete berk_ from your past."

"He is a right berk, isn't he?"

John chuckled, moving behind Sherlock to put his hands on his shoulder blades and push him up the stairs. "Absolutely."

* * *

**I wanted to do a bit of an epilogue but I couldn't figure out how to write it :( Still, thank you for staying with this for so long :D**

**ps: if ff really goes through with it's explicit purge, im on ao3 as rivalshipping. come find me if they take me down!**


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